


Fool For Love

by RabbitsBones



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Wildling!Starks
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-19
Updated: 2019-05-05
Packaged: 2020-01-16 10:24:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 11,062
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18519526
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RabbitsBones/pseuds/RabbitsBones
Summary: The Starks are free folk, supporting Mance Rayder with the hopes of breaching the Wall once and for all. Without regards to bastards or lineage Jon finds himself comfortably surrounded by a family more then willing to fight for him.But Tormund has always been stubborn.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> OKAY, so...  
> I got into Game of Thrones recently.  
> I write a lot in my spare time, but not fics, so this is something I'm not super comfortable with- as is why I'm tentatively posting what should be the first chapter of this Jonmund AU I've talked to friends about.  
> I'd love to hear feedback, whether you think this has potential, etc. 
> 
> This is just the first chapter, not much happens, but I'm posting it anyways. 
> 
> I'm rambling now. 
> 
> Anyways- this will be Jon/Tormund, with Tormund attempting to steal a man from a pack of wolves.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OKAY, so...  
> I got into Game of Thrones recently.  
> I write a lot in my spare time, but not fics, so this is something I'm not super comfortable with- as is why I'm tentatively posting what should be the first chapter of this Jonmund AU I've talked to friends about.  
> I'd love to hear feedback, whether you think this has potential, etc.
> 
> This is just the first chapter, not much happens, but I'm posting it anyways.
> 
> I'm rambling now.
> 
> Anyways- this will be Jon/Tormund, with Tormund attempting to steal a man from a pack of wolves.

The rabbit sprints, displacing snow in its path with wild abandon. It knows nothing of the tracks it leaves in the freshly fallen snow, only the speed at which it attempts to flee from danger when alerted. Jon’s arrow has, unfortunately, missed its mark much to Robb’s casual amusement. They’ve already secured enough food to bring back on this hunt, but it never hurts to have extra. It’s a good way of keeping their family well fed and even potentially making connections outside their immediate tribe. No one turns down perfectly good rabbit, and the only solace that can be found in his mistake is that it sends Ghost chasing after it like a man on a mission. He needs a good run, and while the creature will be akin to a light snack it’s more about the adrenaline rather than the prize. A real chance to stretch his leg that marks the end their hunt seeing as all game that could have been lurking in the area has now been sent scattering at the direwolves leaps and bounds. Fondly Jon thinks that he almost looks like a puppy, if not for the fact that he’s about as tall as the man himself. 

“You know, I’ve found it to be helpful to keep your eyes open when you shoot.” His companion remarks with a grin, lifting up the branch where their other kill hangs. Two birds and a thin fox. They do well for themselves, and neither has missed such a simple shot since before they became men. It’s an embarrassing mistake, especially for someone who prides himself quite a bit on his dependability and being able to provide for his loved ones. 

“Aye, I’ll keep that in mind when I turn my bow on you.” It’s an empty threat, they both know it, and with the way that Robb’s eyes crinkle in the corners like he’s been told an especially amusing joke Jon almost wants to make good on it. Best not to though, among the copious reasons that such a betrayal would be as foolish as it is unlikely, the most worrisome is the ire that would be brought down upon him by Cat. Even though she wasn’t born of the free folk she’s taken to adopting the spirit as well as any one of her children, and gods have mercy on any man, woman, or creature that harms those she holds dear- particularly her first born. 

Besides, he has been cursed with a similar level of… appreciation for the man beside him. They are not brothers in blood, but they may as well be. Since the day that he was brought under Ned’s protection with nothing more than the furs his mother prepared for him and the name she’d chosen for him, the last breathe from her lips, he and the firstborn Stark have seemed to be born of the same breath. It’s a point of amusement for the younger siblings, and a bit of ire in Arya’s case, but it remains all the same that try as he might he cannot find it in himself to be upset with some light ribbing from Robb. That doesn’t keep him from reaching out and wacking his bow against the redhead’s chest, even if it doesn’t do much good what with the layers they wear. 

His attack is returned with a boot jabbed into the back of one ankle. It’s not enough to trip him, but it satisfies the other man’s need for revenge and sends him scampering a couple feet away. When Jon offers a look that clearly shows that his patience is waning and the mental reasoning that an arrow to the thigh wouldn’t be of too much damage, his brother holds up his free hand in a peacemaking gesture. Were it not for the food they ought to be bringing back to camp by now then he would have pursued an earnest retribution that would result with them wrestling in the snow. Growing up with another boy your age, about your build, and with the same ideals means that competition in unavoidable. Luckily, neither of them takes their losses too hard, by it would hardly be worth the effort at all if the winner wasn’t allowed to gloat. 

The thing about it though is that even with Robb taking the piss at the fact that such an easy shot was lost is that when they return to camp he won’t mention it to a soul, regardless of the fact that it would seldom stir any upset with Jon. The other man is earnest and kind, he has no desire to showcase others’ misfortune. It’s part of why he’s walking without an arrow sticking out as decoration. It would be much easier to shoot him if he weren’t as good of a man as he is. 

“As much as I love how good you make me look at basic living there must be something bothering you if you if you missed a shot like that.” Blue eyes are trained on him, curious and willing to push to get a respectable answer. Not as though this stops Jon from answering with a grunt, providing as little information as humanly possible- his speciality. 

Not that the hint is taken. 

“I’d say you’ve finally found someone worth stealing-” A withering look is cast and, promptly, ignored. “But I know better than that. You’re worried.” Robb taps the side of his nose twice before pointing at his brother. 

“Of course you are, what am I saying.”

“Robb-” 

“Not yet, I’m onto something.” He muses, stroking at his beard as though he’s thoroughly compelled by what may be bothering his brother. Given, it’s not exactly difficult to make the connection. Today is an important day, after all, and no matter how Jon shuffles his boots in the powdered snowfall it won’t stall what’s bound to happen. 

“You’re nervous about meeting Mance Rayder.” He hits the mark just like he always does, coupled by an aggrieved sigh that earns the brunette a ruthless eye roll in return. Too dramatic, Arya’s claimed more then once before, with a murmur of general air of agreement from most of her siblings when he gets in these moods. Only Bran remains sympathetic. Bran knows the meaning of loyalty. 

Jon considers forsaking Robb as his favorite for all of two seconds before his attention is drawn away from his thoughts once more. They’re making headway on getting back to the camp, with time to spare, but the weather has been especially cruel today and the wind cuts through his layers with wild abandon. They’ll feel better once the mean is roasted and their stomachs are stretched with warm food, but for not the hike may as well be the length of the wall. And, how fortunate is he, that he has such a compassionate man by his side, willing to hear out all his woes and worries?  
Truly, he counts his blessings by the dozens. 

“I don’t want to talk about it.” He tries, again, even though he may as well be speaking a whole different tongue for all the good it does. Pleas fall on deaf ears when it comes to Robb getting what he wants, and this situation is no different. It’s astounding, really, how far you can get with wheedling someone down when you’re charming, kind, and trekking through the snow together. 

Not that it makes him feel any better when he does glance over only to be met with a gaze full of worry and just a hint of understanding. By now their family is familiar with how he worries, they do what they can but it’s simply in his nature at this point. They call Mance Rayder the King-Beyond-the-Wall and he and Robb are to meet him for the first time today. This is someone who has managed to band together free folk from all walks of life, and that alone is daunting. It’s no small feat to get their people on good terms when blood has been spilt and more often than not grudges are held in a unyielding grip. More so than that though, Jon finds himself stuck on the prospect of what it’ll mean for them when they finally make their move upon the wall. 

He rubs his face, his glove feeling no more welcoming than a brick of ice. His shoulder’s bumped in an act of solidarity. Shoddy as it may be, it’s a reminder that he’s not alone in this. When they travel to Mance it’ll be with their father who has been working alongside the other man in an effort to give them the best chances of succeeding. In their clan there is no one more highly regarded than Ned, and once exposed to other free folk it’s easy to see the aspects of him that make a compelling adviser. 

There is no one Jon admires quite as much. 

“It won’t be all bad.” Robb assures, with a confident that stirs envy like nothing else. Gods, does he wish he could be so bold as to think that things will go as he desires. Even if he knows his brother is no fool, he still shows his self-assurance in these situations. 

“It’s not like we’re there for anything more then to watch. Father wants us to know what’s happening, in case…” He waves a hand absently, eyebrows furrowing momentarily before they smooth out once more, neither of them wants to think about ‘what ifs’ at the moment. “We need to take charge. He’s looking for support from us, chances are you won’t even be given a second glance.” 

Perhaps a bit degrading, depending on who you were asking, but the thought does serve its purpose. Something in Jon’s chest loosens, and he’s able to relax a little bit more. He nods, nearly morose in its manner, curls bobbing until they’re pushed back and further into his hood. 

“I know.” He counters, eyes squinting as he spots a figure in the distance. Nothing to fear, by the Gods’ blessing, as he recognizes the form of Ghost catching up with them. He must have caught the rabbit or something worthwhile, because his maw is much pinker then it had been before. Regardless of the gore that lingers he pets the wolf’s flank when it trotts up with all the grace of a newborn cub. He’s a great lumbering beast, but they are more alike in that manner then any kneeler will ever know. 

“I don’t need coddling, I just need us to make it back to camp with the catch and get the damn thing over with before I’ve been frozen balls to brain.” Not to mention that it doesn’t exactly inspire the most comforting of emotions being isolated from their people like hunting requires. Chances are slim that they’ll run into anything unsavory, but those are still chances all the same, and Jon is knowing if not a worrier. It’s of no worry though, because Robb offers his sentiments of agreement and seems more then happy to pick up the pace a little with no further conversations on topics that would be happier ignored. 

Instead they bicker, as brothers do, over asinine things. It passes the time, and distracts them well, until Ghost is bounding off ahead of them to meet his brother. Grey Wind has stayed in order to watch over the camp, as he’s prone to doing when his master goes off on various quick to complete tasks. They’ve each bonded with their wolves for one reason or another, and it’s easy to see where some of their traits have been adopted or simply fostered in the animals. Arya’s Nymeria is fiercely independent, despite the fact she’s part of a pack, prone to snapping at the larger of her litter mates. Lady, Sansa’s beloved choice of companion, holds herself with a dignity and obedience that is praised relentlessly from the redhead. Summer, who follows Brand happily, is adventurous and brave in all the ways Jon loves about his younger brother. Shaggy Dog is playful and sweet, and it leads to case and point that it makes sense for Grey Wind to hang back in these situations. 

Robb is protective and loyal, to a fault perhaps. His direwolf would die before seeing any of its’ pack mates, whether human or animal, harmed. Ghost is capable of keeping them safe, should it come to that, when they travel away from camp- and that trust the pups have in each other is what allows Grey Wind to feel comfortable with keeping watch over the rest of their family. 

And, when Jon thinks back to how he’s seen Grey Wind prance about as if he wears a crown on his head, aye, he thinks. Like man like beast. 

Though, he’s not quite sure what that means for him and Ghost. 

Not as though it matters- because they’ve made it back safe and a wolf isn’t the only thing waiting to greet them. Both Ned and Arya approach, the girl with a fair larger amount of enthusiasm then her father. Sometimes kids would joke with thinly veiled cruelty, as they can be known to do, in whispers about the older man. 

‘Got a stick up his ass, that one.’ One boy would whisper, lips curling as though he has been informed that he is a most comedic messenger of humor that is far before his time. ‘Froze him from the inside out- now he’s stuck with a face like that!’

Time and winter have taken their toll on the man, and though his face is deep with wrinkles, and he can oftentimes be found frowning it is unbeknownst to most youth that at least some of those folds are laughter lines. He is a man who has seen more than his fair share of horrors, and can still look past them in order to take amusement at how his youngest daughter jumps at the chance to show off her prowellness with a spear. She points it at Robb, smart considering which of them actually has their wolf at their side, but quickly dashes that thought when she spins to make a swipe at his ankles. 

Somehow, maybe due to the gods’ mercy, Jon manages to keep from getting his ankles bruised and falling on his ass. Arya’s seeming particularly good natured today as well, in the fact that she doesn’t continue on without an ounce of regret in her attack on her brothers’ peace of mind. Instead she nods once, as though there are a series of obstacles she’s set for him and he’s cleared the first. The thought is foreboding. This is only the beginning. Give her another moons with her weapon of choice and paranoia will be signature trait of the Starks. 

“Good. Father says you have to be on your toes at all times during a fight. Sloppy footwork means a sloppy death.” Jon mourns prematurely for whatever poor souls think to steal her when she’s older. They’ll have bodies lining their camp, no doubt. 

“I wouldn’t call this a fight.” Robb intervenes, as his brother prepares for the talk that will have to be had with Sansa when she realizes that no one will even try for another Stark child when her sister has bashed in the ankles of every person who’s looked at their family twice with interest. 

“We all have weapons- no reason to think that there won’t be a fight.” Arya argues. She raises her eyebrows at the redhead, who is quick to refute. 

“You don’t fight family!”

Throughout this Ned and Jon have a silent discussion in only the way that sullen free folk can. 

Their father takes the fruits of their hunt from his eldest, casting his gaze towards the other boy.  
‘How did it go?’ 

Jon looks purposefully at their catch. ‘Well enough.’ It supplies, even if they aren’t exactly going to be getting praise any time soon about their prowess as predators. 

A quirk of a brow from Ned. Arya truly does take after him. ‘Any trouble?’ 

He shakes his head, once, no need for excess. 

Not much translating is needed for that, but the way the man’s posture relaxes, melting off a bit of stress at the threats that lurk within the bowels of the North. Once day they will have to face the Others, but today is not that day. He can take comfort in the companionship of his wife and bathe his children in a subtle adoration for another day. Likewise, Jon is grateful for the absence of horrors in their outing, but nothing will completely quell the knot in his stomach. This fear, at least, he knows he can share with their father. 

Robb and Arya have come to, an albeit tentative agreement, that there may be no reason for them to fear an attack from her- however, they should be mindful about potential threats. In it’s bare essence it’s understood that the starks would never betray one another. It’s as Ned tells them, ‘When the snow falls and the white winds blow, the lone wolf dies, but the pack survives.’ The mere contemplation that one of their siblings could betray them is outlandish at best. 

Other families are not so lucky. 

But they are not any other family. They are the Starks, and one Snow by technicality, and they are bound by blood, honor, and choice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fic is named for Fool for Love by Lord Huron


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> me, without any sort of semblance of an idea on what i'm doing: uhhhh, can i get a hell yeah??

The fox is skinned, likewise the birds are pruned of their feathers as the meal is prepared. By this point it’s nearing half day, or at least a good portion through their supply of- even minimal daylight. As winter approaches the sun becomes increasingly difficult to catch glimpses of, blanketed by clouds thicker than the snow they settle onto the land. Something deep stirs Jon into alertness at the thought. Ideally they would be preparing for the winter at this point, so harsh that it would massacre their people should they let it. 

This summer has lasted most of Jon’s life- Robb’s too, but they can still remember the last winter. Or, at least, the last real winter considering that snow is a constant they’ve never known otherwise. They’d been born in the tail end of a warmer season, where food was easier to come by and their numbers grew. Often it’s a source of jabs and other light hearted humor at the eldest Stark child’s expense- that he took the last traces of heat when he developed hair akin to the color of fire and eyes the color of the clear sky. He is a child bred from a summer, and where he, Sansa, Rickon- and even Catelyn herself are fire touched, but that won’t prepare them for when the sun is little more than a memory and each step they take is harsher to bare then the last. 

For the younger children, Rickon, Brand, and Arya- the summer is all they’ve ever known. Sansa even has no recollection of when the days bled into a blur of darkness and there was no relief from the chill that ate at their bones. It had nearly killed Jon when he was still young enough to stumble with a bow, brought down with an illness that condemned him to an exile from his siblings. His father would keep him company then, sometimes with the company of their clan’s healer. A good deal of time has passed since then, but the memory of feeling as though he would be swallowed whole by a heat born from sickness even in the chillest point in the night is still clear. When he did not feel to be burning alive he was plagued by a frost that settled in his veins, the fire flickering less than half a body’s length away. It was in reach, calling his name when his fingers were blue and he was sure that he would never see his family again. 

Jon had reached out, beckoned by nature’s wicked promises, until his hand was submerged in the flame and yet… Nothing came. No pain, just the slow introduction of warmth and before he knew it his color had settled back into a body once far too pallid. Flush cheeks, his breath visible once more. A fever dream, surely, a brush with death- but he hadn’t fallen sick since. 

In the time after there had been whispers, murmurs between some of the spearwives, and even his father’s friends that it had been a warning. His mother had given his name the day he was born and the day that she died, before they’d even been sure that he would make it to his waking years. Bad luck, as was common knowledge among the free folk. Name a babe before it was strong enough to stand on two legs and it would be taken by the Gods’. They were funny like that, delighting in cruelty. Even if Ned had tried to right this wrong, calling the boy Snow until he earned his true given name, no trespass went unpunished. 

Of course it was just Jon’s luck that the milkname never truly left. 

‘Snow,’ Sansa told a friend in a harmless deceit after having brought a friend of hers by while her older brothers were sparring. She thought she was out of earshot, or maybe she didn’t truly care all that much about whether or not he heard, but it’s not even as he could bring himself to upset as she continued. ‘For skin just as pale and eyes twice as cold’. 

Not that he had ever understood that particular comment, nor did he think anyone truly did, but their siblings latched onto it since the first time he rolled his eyes in reply. 

Even so, regardless of teasing and childish jokes, there was no mistaking that Jon was as much a Stark. Ghost helps, if there’s anything that makes you feel connected to your family it’s the presence of a few very attached direwolves. Beyond that he knows Sansa cares for him because when he comes to bring her the good news- a fox captured means thick white fur skinned and soon ready to be made into gloves or… something else, he’s not too sure. Sewing has never been his strong suit. 

Doesn’t help that even if it were anything that came from his hand would pale in comparison to what his sister has waiting for him when finds her near the fire where his family is currently settled. She’s there, kept company by her mother, who seems to view this as the prime moment to seek out Ned. It’s funny, really, the way she’s held onto wearing skirts. It’s not practical, and regardless of her desire she has to wear many layers underneath, but it’s easily chalked up to her southern heritage. Either way, she grips at the fabric, excusing herself in order to allow her daughter some privacy. 

At least, that’s the only thing Jon can reason for her departure besides simple coincidence. That’s not the case though, from the way his sister smiles at him in the way she does when she knows something you don’t. Her eyes are light, clear as ice, and she’s a true beauty if he’s ever known one. So firmly her mother’s daughter, in looks and in the way she holds herself with a dignity that most think impossible from the free folk. 

“Should I be worried?” His mouth is stretched into a wary sort of smile, hands hovering near the fire. Sansa gives him a look which clearly displays how big of a baby she think he is, but she’s fighting a grin and when he nudges their shoulders together it breaks free. 

“I have something for you.” Her posture changes, pride evident. She twists, reaching behind her and pulling a pile of furs into the light. 

It’s a cloak, upon further inspection. Made from the fur of a bear they’d managed to bring down a few moons back. It’s long and nearly pure white- with the exception of gray and white fox fur that serves as the necklining. It’s coupled with an abundance of dark feathers, and Jon laughs, unbidden. 

“I made it, myself.” It’s not often that the woman opts for displays of affection, but he can feel a sting behind his eye regardless. 

“Thank you.” He replies, earnestly, a hand trailing down to feel it before turning his attention to his sister. “Even if you’re trying to make me look like a bloody crow.” 

She slaps his shoulder roughly, without mercy, and he laughs lowly, eyes drawn back to the present. Their father has one, said to be made from a direwolf passed down from his mother and hers before her. Robb has a similar one, though not nearly as impressive. Cat made his, from the skin of the average wolf, but he wears it like he may as well be the King-Beyond-the-Wall. Even Cat has a fine shawl made from fox fur. For Jon though, his is perfect. He and Sansa have never been as close as they could be, but is in awe of the woman she’s become. 

“Trust me,” Her eyes glimmer with mischief. “This is more for us then you. You’re meeting Mance Rayder, you and Robb are going to show him what our family is made of. Can’t have you looking like you’ve just crawled out of the caves.” 

Aye, if that ain’t the truth. He’s nothing to scoff at, sure, but it doesn’t hurt to put up a good image for their clan. 

“I’ll treasure it, regardless.” And truly, there must be something in his eye from how he rubs at them. Sansa, in a decision much kinder than her sister would ever take part in, steadfast ignores it. He doesn’t hesitate to reach over, cupping the back of her head and leaning in to press a kiss to her forehead in thanks. 

“Thank you.” He murmurs, again, and she pushes him away before leaning against him. For as much of a thorn in his side as she can be, she is a gracious person and his gratitude is immense. 

“It doesn’t seem like much, now, but today’s hunt brings a fox. Maybe this time you can make those gloves you’ve been thinking of.” Unconsciously her hands separate, palms upwards. Hers are in need of replacement, and it’s about time she were to focus her craft on her own self benefit. She is the one who repairs the tears they manage, who manages to keep her brothers and sister clothed even with their penchant for destruction of such goods. 

“I’ll see what I can do.” She agrees, and stands. Her eyes, expectant, are trained on him until Jon connects the pieces and stands as well. “Now let’s see it.” 

His previous coat, nothing more than a mismatched assortment of fabrics available, is discarded for now. It’s still of use, of course, but Sansa is eager to see the fruit of her labor in action. 

The feathers tickle his cheek where they reach it, but it’s solid and will do wonders in keeping the wind off of him when traveling. Just in time, as if summoned, the rest of their family trickle in- as if having sensed a chance to tease one of their own. That or they know a meal is in store at the sight of today’s hunt skinned and ready to be roasted. 

“You know, we aren’t planning on seducing Mance Rayder-” Robb starts, grin wolfish even with his mother smacks his arm lightly to remind him of his manners. His head ducks, to hide his lack of penitence at the scolding, getting closer to the fire and setting it up. Catelyn, despite knowing better than to think there will be a change of way from her eldest, settles next to Sansa. Rickon is hardly a step behind his mother’s skirts and has no qualm worming into the woman’s lap. Her fingers stroke his hair while Bran settles opposite of the fire. Summer sits at his back, nose nudging his neck and causing him to laugh before reaching back to offer pets. Ned joins him once both birds are on the fire, watching them diligently as Jon settles catty corner to Sansa. 

Arya plops down next to him, staff thankfully out of sight. Her hair is braided, tied in the back, and nearly a mirror image of her father who’s begun to listen to Brand’s retelling of his day. It’s only recently that he’s begun to truly access his capabilities as a warg, and both parents have been diligent in making sure that he’s able to meet with another of his kind to grow more accustomed to it. He’s the strongest of the lot, that much is already clear, even if the blood runs through their blood. 

“You look good.” His youngest sister informs him, head held high as she examines her sisters work. “I’ll have to see about getting father to bring me for a hunt, so I can bring back what she needs to make me new trousers. I’m growing taller, you know.” Her expression is flat, factual, until she spots him trying not to smile. It’s a losing battle. 

“I am getting taller!” She insists, punching his arm. It smarts, even through the layers, and Jon rubs it with an almost sullen expression. “I never said otherwise.” A futile protest, they all know that even despite the fact that the girl is a force to be reckoned with that she’ll be the shortest of the lot. 

Good for sneaking up on people, their father insists. 

She settles him with a squint of suspicion, but it’s no secret that Jon is her favorite, and thus forgiven. In turn he makes good of his new cloak, pulling his sister close and covering her under its reach. Regardless of how independent the girl may be, no one denies freely given warmth. He spots Cat watching them, merely observing, and the woman offers her praise to Sansa for such fine work. Ned is quick to chime in as well, and offers Jon a nod. 

Warmth settles in his stomach, skin abuzz with contentment. This is where they’re supposed to be, with their family lined around the fire. Bird roasts on the fire and Robb settles into a seat next to Arya, and things are perfect. 

But peace doesn’t last forever, and quick as it came their meal finishes and their family is sent in their separate ways. Cat and Sansa gather the bones to clean them and see what could be done with the remains. Bran is tasked with taking his younger brother to clean themselves up and play with some of the other kids in their camp. He’s been teaching one how to climb trees, much to his mother’s dismay, but they are the free folk and she’s long since figured out how to pick her battles. 

Arya sticks around, but only for a bit. It’s the closest they get to a see off, with her arms crossed over her chest. Her mouth is set into a frown, trained on her brothers. “You make him earn our loyalty.” She demands, despite the fact that their father has already pledged his help. Ned is an honor bound men, and though most free folk are his sons are a little bit smarter in placing their trust. Still, he is a good judge of character, even if he seldom expects the worst from others. 

“Of course, can’t let him win us over that easy can we?” Robb asks, expression fond as they’re put through the rounds. He’s always been good with his brothers and sisters though, stepping forward to crouch until they’re on eye level. “We’ll be back soon, and maybe while we’re there we’ll find someone with a knife. Can’t have you hunting with just a staff, now can we?” 

It gets the desired reaction. Arya’s expression morphs into something akin to excitement before she catches herself. Being a spearwife will be well suited for her once she becomes a little more lethal. 

“I want something small, and deadly. Like me.” The look in her eyes begs for someone to disagree so that she can prove herself, but neither of them are that foolish. Instead Robb laughs, patting her shoulder. 

“I’ll do my best.” It’s enough, for now, to let them continue reading for the trip. She still lingers, seemingly unhappy with the situation as a whole, whether she wants to be or not. Maybe it’s why she gravitates to Jon. They’re cut from the same cloth, but they both trust their father above all, so when he kisses her forehead and sends her on her way she seems… relieved, in a manner. 

Jon lets out a breath he didn’t know he was holding, attention turning to Ghost who stands dutifully by his side. “We all set?” He asks, one hand on the direwolf’s flank. Robb’s attention turns from Grey Wind to their father now, and once given the final nod they begin to make their way to the camp housing Mance Rayder. 

The sun is high above them, but snow has begin to come down once more, and their day is far from over.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I may edit this chapter in the future. I don't have a beta reader so I'm sure there's mistakes I haven't caught, and it's rather late as I'm posting this.  
> Either way, a shorter then usual chapter because for the next I'll be switching to Tormund's POV. 
> 
> Thanks for reading!!

The ride to Mance Rayder’s camp is short and far quicker then Jon had anticipated. With the wind against their backs they managed to make good time, and with Grey Wind and Ghost taking the lead and rear respectively they’ve managed to avoid conflict of any kind be it from Others or even animals. Those living, be it humans or creature, aren’t foolish enough to approach one direwolf much less two. Ned has been, characteristically, rather quiet and neither of his sons have had all that much to say. 

In his mind the bastard finds himself considering how things will go, and can only imagine that the same can be said for both Stark men. Preparing for the best, the worst, and the most likely. For different reasons, perhaps. Robb has a mind for strategy like no other and is as sharp as honorable at his father, though without the burden of time. He wants to make a good impression, that much is clear. Ned is a respected man, and Mance had trusted him thus far but a son is not his father just as a daughter is not her mother. If he’s to gather favor then he will have to work for it, and this will be the first step in that effort. 

His father, on the other hand, has nothing to gain but everything to lose. There is no desire in his veins for glory, he’s done his share of fighting when he was younger but now he has six children and a woman he loves. The position he holds is one of respect, people think of him as a truly good man. They are to make their attack on the wall and in this situation there is everything to lose. If there’s anything he got from the older man it’s his habitual worrying. There’s nothing worse than the worming of unwelcome thoughts into the mind, well, besides for those fears coming to life. 

It’s what plagues Jon as they reach the larger camp, a larger collective of those who have long since pledged themselves to the cause. If there’s one thing to be said about the free folk is that they are single minded in their pursuit for what they desire, and often loyal to a fault. 

As a people they are aware of the kneelers, and what they think of the men and women north of the wall. How interesting that they’ve somehow manage to reason that the ‘wildlings’ are lower than their brothers and sisters down south all because of a border that was built without their consent. Crows kill them without mercy, mocking them from where they watch in the sky. They think their gods up there, holier than thou despite the fact that the long night is coming. 

Fools, the lot of them. 

He thinks of his sisters, his younger brothers. He thinks of how he can remember then when they were still young with silly milk names and how weak they’d looked. He thinks of one of his fuzziest memories, when Sansa was born screaming and how he’d lamented that it would never end. She’d been so small when he and Robb were first able to meet her, and how like any child the brunette had been inquisitive enough to reach out. Her tiny fist had latched onto his own hand, her face pink and mood fussy. 

They are a pack, regardless of their lack of fur or fangs. They are wolves and ever since that moment he has known that he would pay the ultimate price in order to protect his family. The years have only confirmed this truth, from his joy at watching Robb when in a fight- even if it meant he had lost, or how heartbreaking it had been when Sansa was old enough to shed tears. Arya’s penchant for following hot on his heels, especially in her youth, looking up at him like he was a man much more worthy than he truly is. Bran begging for another story, regardless of what Cat’s ordered, and Rickon’s scrapped hands from his latest tumble. 

More than anything, they are his. Wrong of him to think that, surely, but Jon has never claimed not to be a selfish man. 

So when he thinks of these men at the wall his fingers curl into his gloves, and for a moment he feels something so fierce, so irrevocably furious that he may as well be burning alive- from the inside out until ash is all he can taste on his tongue. His temper is mild, he is not Arya who is quick to anger, but rather then the faint light of a candle his anger is the roar of a fire larger than any Mance Rayder plans to light. 

And, what makes Jon’s lips twist into a smile birthed from the irony of it all is the fact that the man called the King-Beyond-the-Wall is that he was once a kneeler. A crow, too. 

He thinks they can make it past the wall, or that there is no other choice. Their people believe him. 

Frankly, the whole situation makes Jon feel as though they’re looking at the last of their days, but he won’t give his opinion when no one’s asked for it. 

Instead they throw themselves into what they can control. In this case it’s follow a chain of command that says they have a shot at a better life, at changing the game. For Cat it’s trusting her husband to do what’s right. For their children it’s watching, waiting, and learning from their parents mistakes. In any case, it’s not like they have a chance at defeating the Others themselves. 

His head throbs, a sharp pain behind his eye momentarily that tells him he’s been thinking on this issue for far too long. It’s time to think of something, literally anything, else then their impending doom. So, in an effort to appease his brain, he focuses on the camp that has quickly come into view. 

Hundreds, thousands, he’s not quite sure really- of tents are set up. It’s like a city, curled in next to some trees and even spreading into the forest. This is a majority of the leaders, elders, and fighters reside. Ned should be here, they all should really, but Starks stick together and chances are that even if Cat and the younger children were interested in joining a larger community of people that they wouldn’t be welcomed all too warmly. Wargs are one thing, giants even, but direwolves are still feral creatures and are feared. Ghost and Grey Wind are well behaved, the others are too to some extent, but it would only take one mishap for something awful to befall the litter. 

In any case, they’ve elected to temporarily settle themselves just past the outskirts of the collection. It’s enough distance to make the walk one that has to be prepared for, but nothing outlandish. If he were riding Ghost then it hardly would have taken any time at all, however Ned- despite his blood, doesn’t have a direwolf of his own and thus they walked. Besides, Jon’s fairly certain that neither his pup nor Grey Wind would have been all too enthused about being used as horses. No, they are much too prideful and easily distracted at times. Without reins they would be a right nightmare, and would never allow harnesses. 

As he further contemplates the merits of making of riding wolfback their father leads them to the middle of the camp. Kids stare, without much shame, seemingly somewhere between apprehension and awe. It’s cute, really, but their attention is short lived. The minds of children are fickle, quick to jump from one thought to another, and not for the first time Jon considers what it would be like, should he sire any young ones of his own. Although not entirely unwelcome the thought still stirs something inside him, an innate fear. 

Is this a world that he wants to bring life into? 

But in that same breath he thinks of his siblings, what life would be like without them. The North would be far more dreary without Sansa’s shock of red hair and Arya’s devotion to keeping her older brothers on their toes. Bran and Rickon’s enthusiasm for life, regardless of the fact that their people are quite literally stuck between a rock and a hard place. This is no world for children, but… they are the only ones who can change that. 

Maybe a family wouldn’t be so bad, he thinks, eyes flitting from his father to his brother.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tormund POV
> 
> No beta reader, so if there's mistakes I give full authorization to be personally slandered  
> Anyways, today's lyrics that I love for Jon/Tormund are from Talk by Hozier (which is in my playlist for them)
> 
> “I won't deny I've got in my mind now all the things we'd do  
> So I'll try to talk refined for fear that you find out how I'm imaginin' you.”

There were few men that Tormund would trust with his life. You don’t really live long enough to see much at all without having that bit of common sense that fuels a range of skepticism for those around when you live in the true North. The number of men who have tried, and failed, to tear him down are surely soldiers of death now and here he is, trusted by the man who would lead them through the long night. Ironic, maybe, from the perspective of someone who had no shortage of lost love for the man. Really, though, it was their mistake from the beginning. You didn’t mess with a man who was nursed on giant’s milk. 

Hell, he wasn’t even pushing thirty yet and he’d done everything in spades. Stole a woman, had a couple of girls who- much to his pleasure, got their old man’s bright red hair. He loves them to bits, sure, but his duty was done and so little had kept him from taking up Mances’ cause. Their mother watches them now, and passion may be fleeting but they both got what they wanted from the whole thing. His daughters, they’re fighters, for sure, and one day they’ll be spearwives. If, and that is the issue at hand, they actually manage to win this fight and get the free folk pass the wall. 

It would be one thing if everyone could climb it, hell, he’d done it a handful of times himself but that just wasn’t possible with the young and old. Some are their people are weaker, and some are sick; None of them deserve to be left rotting because of it. What good were they if they couldn’t even take care of the people who raised it or those that’d take up the mantle once death did it’s bidding? 

As usual, then, it came out that their only choice is to fight, to rip each crow’s head from their body and burn them in the largest pyre the gods will ever see just to get through the bloody wall. But, before they can actually do that they have to plan, something to try and prevent some of the casualties that are going to come with this mammoth of a fight. Tormund takes comfort in the fierceness of the free folk in this respect. They’re survivors, warriors who have done their share of bleeding and now it’s time for the kneelers to do the same. 

It’s been all he think about night and day, he dreams about cutting through a mass of black like one of those gods they pray to. The thought itself puts him a good mood, grinning as he walks through the camp and delighting in fucking with a few of the people he passes along the way with a light shove or a word or two. 

Only when he catches sight of Ned Stark that his mind bothers to indulges in another line of thinking. 

Three of them, men, walking. Not unusual by any means, but what draws the eye is that next to them trail two wolves larger than some men are tall. They’re beasts, direwolves, but they hardly spare a glance to the children trailing them or the fighters that eye them warily. Their famed teeth are there, surely, but there’s no blood pouring from their jaws and the tales paint them much more terrifying. Tamed, maybe, but they hardly look like pets and- well, the amusement of it all causes the ginger to let out a low chuckle. Who would have anticipated Ned Stark of all people to make such an entrance. The man’s so quiet Tormund damn well forgets that he’s there half the time, regardless of the size of him and the thickness of the pelts he wears. Regardless, he’s made a name for himself and so he’s met with the respect he deserves when he enters Mance’s tent. 

The two others though, they aren’t familiar, but it’s easy enough to piece things together. It was at the last meeting that Ned agreed to bring his two eldest, as a show of good faith to the cause and likely a desire to get them more acquainted with roles they may one day take. They’re fighters, or so he says, and from the looks of things now there won’t be a soul that disagrees, even if they’re a fair bit prettier than anyone lingering around the tent now. 

One is fire touched, just like himself, but different from Ned to the point where it seems likely that the mother was a beauty if herself because they had to get it from somewhere. His eyes are blue, and honestly he looks more like Tormund then his own father- and ain’t that a thought, but he stands with all the confidence of youth and the size of him itself paints a tough picture. The brunette, on the other hand, must take after the old man because his hair is dark, curly though- but his face is settled into something solemn. It’s the same look Ned carries, like the cold has seeped inside and soaked him all the warmth and humor one could carry. Maybe he’s got something to prove, or maybe he’s just as subdued as his father, but in any case Tormund’s decided his interest runs deep. Because the other thing about the boy is that he’s pretty. The shape of his mouth, facial hair be damned, is a blessing from the gods itself. He’s small, too, and there’s not a man in the world who could stop debating stealing himself such a beauty. 

It wouldn’t be outlandish to consider, he’s had his kids, done his part. Sure, the other man may not have but they have all the time in the world to get to that. For now he’ll be satisfied in seeing if the picture is as nice as the real thing, approaching them from the side until he’s able to slap a hand against Ned’s back. It’s a surprise he can even feel it, considering his clothing, but he turns and greets Tormund kindly enough. Always mild mannered, this one, it’s a wonder that he ever stole himself a bride from the South. Maybe that exuberance, just like the sun, has faded with the winter they’re soon to bare. 

“Ned,” He grins easily, focusing on the man for a moment before extending his gaze to look over both the other men and their companions. “Here I was thinking that your boys would be as solemn, stone faced as you are and yet here they are, already much more interesting than you ever were.” His tone is amicable, of course, he has no ill will towards anyone present, but like hell he would pass up the chance to ruffle some feathers. Quite literally, it seemed, as he took a look at the brunette. 

“At least they’re easier on the eyes.” The man offers, winking playfully, which was quite successful in the fact that it startled the boy. It was easy to see, from the way his eyes widened to how he swallowed and his tongue darted out to wet his lips. What a sight. His gaze is hard won, to tear itself from the brunette, but his wolf moves to stand between them and the other Stark boy laughs, so his attention turns to that one. 

“Robb.” He introduces, smiling good naturedly as he offers his arm. Tormund takes it, pats him on his back just as the same as he dead to poor old Ned- who looks mighty wary. That much is normal though, and chances were it would be much more telling of something being wrong if he were not to. As it is, he watches with only a hint of dismay at what the younger man’s interest in his sons may mean. 

“Tormund. I’ve never seen someone lead around a pet direwolf, even Orell sticks to his birds, but this is much more of an entrance ain’t it?” He asks, looking at the beast that stands behind his master’s back. Big, smaller than the white one, but he watches Tormund like he’s a particularly uninteresting piece of meat. All things considered, it’s much better to bore a predator then to catch their attention. So he takes no offense, and counts him lucky instead. 

“Not pets.” Ned assures, from his right hand side. His mouth is pressed into a thin line, but he’s not particularly defensive. Well, from what can be read at least. The looks he provides are never all too telling, all things considered. “They’re wild, just the same as other, but… They are trained.” And if that doesn’t sound like a fancy way of saying they’re pets, Tormund’s not sure what does. As if reading his mind though the brunette speaks up, one hand running along the back of the albino one. 

“We’re bonded.” He specifies, as if that explains everything in the world. When he receives a raised eyebrow in return he continues on, though not by much. “We can’t control them, but they respect us. We have wolf blood, too.” The last part is quieter, more absently added as he pets his companion’s ears with nary a care in the world. 

“Whatever the case, it’ll be useful when we’re knocking on the crow’s gate. Giants, wargs, direwolves- they won’t see a thing coming.” There’s a murmur of agreement from Robb- good man, he seems to be, but Tormund’s interest is settled at the moment. He reaches out, moving to touch the brunette’s face, tilting his head back by his chin. It’s then that the grey of his eyes is made clear, nearly so dark that they may as well have been deep waters in the middle of a moonless night. 

“You know, you ought to be careful, little one.” His hand moves, catching a couple of the feathers between his fingers, only for a moment before he pulls away. “People might think you’re one of them, with this fur of yours.” He warns. Given, the rest of it as white, but the bird feathers are dark as can be and in a fight it won’t exactly be helping. Still, that’s some time away and what is truly the delight is the fact the boy’s cheeks turn a little more pink. Not just the cold, then. 

Smug, the man turns away and waves for Ned and the boys to enter. The wolves can keep guard, he tells them, because they aren’t all going to fit in there. They have elders coming from all over, they got Mance wandering around here somewhere, and he’s dead right. By the time everyone’s gotten in there he’s claimed a seat on a log, and even if the pretty boy just blinks at him like he’s grown two heads when he pats his thigh as a seat offering, well then it’s just his problem to further away from the fire. Just as well, considering that Ned never takes a seat- in general, either. 

He finally learns the boy’s name too, after Mance has the newcomers introduce themselves. Jon, it is, not that it changes much. It doesn’t take much for the redhead to make up his mind. Soon Mance plans for them to make their attack, and plans for Tormund as well as a few others to climb the wall in order to come at the crows from both sides. Before that, though, he promises himself that he’ll do everything he can while he still can. They’ll make it, he’s sure, can feel it in his bones, but just in case… 

He’s going to steal Jon Snow.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this took a little more time then my updates have before and it's because!  
> I'm thinking about writing another fic  
> This is the first one I've done in awhile, so it's rusty but I've begun plotting out the other 
> 
> thanks for reading!

By the time they’ve left the tent a chill has settled that makes Jon’s lungs ache with each breath. It’s not often that he dreams of the South, no matter what others may say of it, but when the cold reaches the bone like this it’s hard not to desire the promise of warmth. Cat has stories that she shares seldomly, but her children have always found a way to widdle them from her. Those memories are what mark her as an outsider, but the way she speaks of her homeland is layered with a fondness that is usually only reserved for Ned or the children. Family. Duty. Honor. She tells them these are the words that she was raised on. Nothing as important, the woman will claim in a manner that raises no argument, but it’s made him wonder why it was then that she’s here now in the True North where a boy’s father is no more important than the color of his hair. 

In any case though he would be a liar if he said he didn’t listen with rapt attention whenever the subject trailed along those lines. There’s a special quality her voice takes it when describing the caress of a gentle rain that would make any man yearn for it all the same. They’ve heard the rules of the kneelers, why Cat still wears skirts despite the fact that it singles her out, and in a way maybe they should be grateful. There’s some skills she’s proficient in more so then practically any of their clan, such as sewing- something that Sansa’s happily taken up, but there are a few moments when Arya’s wielding a staff and her mouth thins in a way that does not convey pride. He makes nothing of it though, hardly thinks twice, because there’s not a doubt in his mind that Catelyn would go to the ends of the Earth for any one of them. 

He wonders about his own mother, then. His father- well, his uncle really, tells him and the others about her often. It’s clear from the look in his eye that his sorrow has not truly left, even if it’s not quite as often that he thinks about it now. Lyanna was a spearwife with a great love for venturing past the wall with her brothers. They would spend moons there without being caught, and she took to riding like a fish in water. Arya takes after her, supposedly, and so it’s not without some guilt that he can admit that it endears him towards his sister. She’s getting older now, will pass the wall when their army forces its’ way south. Will she find some southern man to steal? Will she die on her birthing bed, just like Jon’s mother?It’s selfish and rather horrible, he knows, but he hopes it never comes. The gods can be cruel, and often misleading, but he’s not sure what he would do should his siblings be lost to death. 

Perhaps, though, he will never have to endure that experience. Maybe he will be the first of them to die. Both a blessing and a curse. A depressing line of thought, sure, but you had to be realistic in the True North. No one could live forever, and some barely get a taste of life before it’s ripped from them. It’s unfortunate in some cases, sure, but it was the way of the world. Humans are predators, even among themselves, and so it’s without shame that Jon joins Robb in an attempt to track down someone willing to barter a knife in the time after the meeting. Ned has lingered at the tent, speaking to those still mulling over their next few steps. It’s nothing particularly noteworthy, and thus the boys have been allowed to go their separate ways for the time being. The main camp is safe enough, and with the wolves there’s no real threat that could be posed unless the Others decided it was time for the fall of man. Luckily, they seem to be otherwise preoccupied, and less luckily is the fact that no one is making this simple task easy. 

“Sure, I’ll trade you my knife...” One man offers, in a tone that suggests that there is more than just a friendly trade on his mind. It’s already clear that Jon’s time is being wasted here, but he’s morbidly curious about what dumbass thing is going to come out of the stranger’s mouth. “For that coat of yours.” And, by the Gods part of him believes he must truly be a physic because not an ounce of him is surprised in the least. People always want more then they’re willing to give. It makes the brunette irate, glancing around before looking back to this- idiot. 

“We both know that isn’t gonna happen, so why don’t you make me a real offer?” Hopefully Robb is faring better than his bastard brother. It wouldn’t be all too outlandish to think, given the fact that he was always better at socializing. It’s the eyes, Ned’s interjected a time or two before, those blue eyes that can worm anyone into doing their bidding. Of course when he says this, chances are he could be a bit biased considering most of his children sport iris’ of blue, and his wife as well, and though Jon won’t dispute it he’s sure it goes a little bit deeper than that. Robb’s nice to look at, you’d be shocked to see the difference that makes. 

It’d be helpful now, to have the other man here to negotiate this. Talking isn’t what Jon’s best at, nor is he keen on spending the rest of his free time bickering. So when the man replies, eloquently offering that he can ‘hand over the coat or go fuck himself’, the choice is clear. Mance may have been able to ban them together for a greater cause, but nothing could make the free folk get along, and there’s no way in hell that Jon’ll hand over the coat that Sansa had made for him. The thought along wrinkles his nose, and he turns away with little else to offer this man besides for, perhaps, a piece of his mind. Which, much to his dismay, must wait considering their time is falling short and soon he and Robb will have to find their father to head back to their own camp. 

Amusingly enough, as if sent down by the Gods themselves to interfere with the brunette’s work, he’s joined by one of the men from the meeting. Tormund, his mind supplies, not only due to the fact that Jon had made a point of paying very close attention to who he met and what was said but as well as the fact that the other man had certainly left quite the… impression. Besotted, Robb had teased in his ear when they could pass a word or two without being overhead, he likes you. 

Embarrassed and confused, Jon had dared reply for fear of making an absolute fool out of himself. It felt childish to be told that this man liked him, though there wasn’t much capability of mistaking it either. The way in which he acted did make it seem as though he wouldn’t mind them sharing a tent, but then again they didn’t know this man. Even Ned had looked a fair bit mystified about the exchange, and he knew the man best out of them. Perhaps this was his way if seeing if the boy was weak, or just a way to pull his leg. Either way, it wasn’t exactly appreciated. 

His lips thin now, not bothering to make eye contact and instead focusing on what he set out to do. Not that being ignored temporarily discouraged Tormund in any manner. In fact he looked happy enough to take the brunt of the conversation starting. By the size of him chances were that there wouldn’t be much that could stop him in the first place. On the other hand, however, it’s not as though men larger than Jon had ever stopped him from knocking them on their ass a good time or two. Still, regardless of what may be said about the free folk, he knows better then to start trouble for no good reason- especially not with a man who was regarded so highly by Mance. 

So, in an act that was fueled by respect, he let himself be open to being polite. This came in the form of his eyebrows furrowing slightly, taking a keen interest in everything other than the redhead. 

“What was that, boy?” His eyebrows are raised when Jon troubles himself to glance over, wary settling on his features. The comment isn’t made in a manner that alludes to anger though, just curiosity, which is… acceptable. “A sword ain’t enough for you, you want somethin’ pretty to poke holes with too?”

It’s common enough to wield two weapons, if you’re capable enough with them. When they made their move against the wall it’ll be one of the things that will give them a leg up on the crows, and even though he has been practicing with dual wielding it would be a stretch to think this man just happened to guess as much. Of course, it’s quickly followed up when Jon begins to walk and somehow finds himself with company now.  
“You know, if you’re looking for a real good knife I could point you in the right direction.” This, at the very least, makes the brunette falter. There is no good reason for the other man to be lying, ad as it is the possibility that it’s the truth seems rather likely. Even though he’s not too familiar with Tormund, it’s easy to see that he knows most of these people and beyond that they respect him. They don’t know Jon- yet, they don’t have any reason to make anything easier then necessary for him. 

Using one hand to rub over the side of his face Jon sighs, stopping and… for all intents and purposes, it’s an agreement to whatever engagement may come. “Okay. And what’s in it for you?” Because no man is ever purely selfish. 

“Well that’s easy, little crow.” Tormund replies, lips stretching into a wide grin. His eyes are clear and they read in the way that an animal’s would. Wild, confident, like the world around them is simply an extension of who he is and there’s nothing possibly worth fearing here. One hand moves to thread a feather from where it tickles the younger man’s cheek through his fingers. “You’re gonna tell me about this wolf of yours I’ve seen scarin’ the folk around here. I ain’t never seen a beast like that bow to a man, but by the looks of it…”

He leans closer, having to bend down slightly in order to speak near Jon’s ear. 

“Neither you nor your family are average men, eh?” 

The warmth of breath meets skin, and for as good of an offer Tormund is making, there’s an innate desire to refuse it. That, however, wouldn’t be terribly smart and Arya deserves a good weapon for all the work she’s been putting into training. 

“Fine.” Jon agrees, pulling away and resting a hand on the hilt of his sword. A warning. “And if you’ve got some motive you’re not telling me, I won’t hesitate to gut the truth from you.”

Tormund laughs, and for a moment there’s a horrible thought that crosses the brunette’s mind because it’s so similar to Robb that he can’t imagine what an image the two would make should they ever be on good terms. 

“If I ever pull such a stunt, I’ll welcome the slow death. I’m not one of those southern kneelers. If I wanted to knock you on your ass you’d have gotten frostbite from the snow already.” He knocks Jon’s arm lightheartedly, as if trying to shove him into a better mood. It isn’t successful. 

“Besides,” The Tormund says, starting to walk once more, expecting his new companion to follow after this time. “Bigger men then you have come for me before, and not a single one of them still lives to speak of it.” 

Jon’s hand loosens from the hilt of the sword, dropping it to his side before finally following with a disgruntled look. “Aye.” He replies, sizing the man up. “But it only takes one blow to do you in for good. Besides,” Gray eyes shift away, looking over the tents and those around them. Ghost is a glimpse in the distance, likely scavenging for food. 

“My father told me big men fall just as quick as little ones, if you put a sword through their heart.”


End file.
